


Room to Breathe

by ThirdEye1234



Series: Fun and Games [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drarry, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Muggle Life, sardines, wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-10 01:10:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20126887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThirdEye1234/pseuds/ThirdEye1234
Summary: After that chance meeting in the library, Harry is confused. He doesn’t really want Malfoy. Does he? A game of sardines might be just the thing to help him figure it out.(Long-awaited?) sequel to my ficlet "In Plain Sight," which if you haven't read, you should probably read first. It's short and kinda hot, in spite of its T rating. Here we kick things up a notch ;)This one features more muggle games, snug silk pajamas, the notorious cashmere hoodie, hiding in the dark, and a decent amount of sexy times.





	Room to Breathe

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my tireless, enthusiastic and speediest of cheerleading betas, Chris @keyflight790. 
> 
> This fic is dedicated to my dear fandom friend who shall remain nameless, but who, upon reading In Plain Sight, DMed me to say, and I quote: "FUCKING CRACKERS AND BISCUITS IF THAT SEXUAL TENSION STAYS UNRESOLVED IMA RIOT"
> 
> Riot not, dear friend. Your resolution awaits!

**Room to Breathe**

It’s just so _ soft_. That’s all. He’s never felt anything like it. He keeps it under his pillow--yes, his _ pillow_. Because, he’s discovered, he’s alarmingly pathetic. But nobody else needs to know that. Malfoy hasn’t asked for it back since Harry walked away with it two weeks ago. Harry won’t dare wear it of course, or let it see the light of day. He just likes to feel it sometimes. And by sometimes, he means every night. And by every night, he means as the last--well, _ second-to-last_\--thing he touches before he falls asleep. He doesn’t wank while holding onto Malfoy’s cashmere jumper. He absolutely does _ not_. And if Ron’s asleep in the next bed and Harry happens to move his pillow so he can properly breathe in the sharp, sweet scent of it . . . what? It’s _ relaxing_. Aromatherapy, right? It’s not like it gets him off.

But, like, it doesn’t _ not _ get him off. He’s eighteen. Everything gets him off. A gentle breeze will do it. But Merlin help him, thinking about Malfoy will do it faster. And better. Gods, it--Harry lets out a slow breath and looks over to Ron to make sure he’s really asleep--it just _ does_. He slips a hand into his pajama bottoms and thinks of Malfoy’s mouth for what must be the hundredth time since that day in the library. That damn mouth. That fucking _ smirk_. When did it go from infuriatingly smug to brain-meltingly hot? And did Malfoy do it on purpose? Oh please, let it be on purpose. All Harry has to do is remember the feel of those lips on his finger, of that tongue swirling around him, and he finishes nearly as quick as he began. 

He is in So. Much. Trouble. It was just a_ game_. A joke, a thrill, a lark! And the hoodie thing was just a spur of the moment . . . thing. He would have asked any bloke for their shirt in that situation. Really. 

He’d been in a good mood, enjoying the simple pleasures in life, playing stupid games and laughing for once, and the sight of Malfoy just sitting there quietly, quiet as he’s been since they all came back for Eighth Year--it just begged for interruption, all right? For the prat’s own _ good_. When Harry started caring about what was good for Malfoy is anybody’s guess, but basically, the war is over and people should be living life, right? Seizing the day. Or the hoodie. Or, you know, allowing (encouraging?) their nemesis (ex-nemesis?) to blow their finger. As one does. Surely other people must do such things. 

(Nobody else does such things.)

It might be a little less concerning, though, Harry has to admit, if the two of them had exchanged more than three words since. They haven’t spoken about it, whatever it was. They haven’t spoken at all. Draco--_ Malfoy--_has continued to be cool and distant, turning up his nose at anything that hints at frivolity. The Eighth Years have played other stupid Muggle games since. Broken Telephone, Charades, Twister. Harry was really hoping Malfoy would be up for Twister. But of course he didn’t bat an eye when they started playing in the common room. What, did he need a hand-embroidered invitation? Well, he shouldn’t hold his breath. 

But maybe that’s it, Harry muses. Maybe he should personally invite Malfoy to play the next game. That would be talking at least, wouldn’t it? It would be a start. Of what, he can’t be sure. But it’s better than wanking to a hoodie. Which he is _ not _ doing, by the way. Fuck, it smells good, though. 

***

“Psst! Harry!” Someone’s breath is in his face. It's not great.

“What the--” He blinks his eyes open to see Ron’s stubbled, freckley face hovering beside his bed. He’s smiling and wide awake at--Harry casts a tempus--_four _ in the bloody _ morning _?

“C’mon, ‘Mione’s got this brilliant idea,” Ron whispers conspiratorially. 

“Great. Can it wait for the sun, though, perhaps?” Harry mumbles.

“That’s just it,” Ron continues, “It’s a game for right now! In the dark! Sardines, it’s called.”

Really. _ Really? _

“I’m not getting out of bed to play Sardines, Ron.” 

Harry turns over. He’s not certain, but pretty sure that Ron interrupted a very pleasant dream, and he’d really like to find his way back into it before dawn. 

“Don’t you want to know how to play?”

“I know how to play.”

“You do?”

“Of course I do!” Harry snaps. “One person hides and everyone looks for them and when each person finds the hider, they hide with them, until there’s nobody left and you’re all squished together and sweaty without room to breathe. This sounds better than sleep to you?”

“Yeah!” Ron says brightly, his eyes taking on a familiar dreamy gleam in the moonlight. 

Ah, there it is.

“You’re hoping this will bring you and Hermione closer, aren’t you?” Harry asks flatly. Of course. Pressed up against someone you fancy in the dark. Sure, that's worth waking up for. But there's no need to make everyone else suffer for it. 

“Wh-what!” Ron sputters. “No. I don’t need an excuse to--_No. _ Merlin, who knew you were so tetchy.”

“It’s four a.m.!” Harry nearly explodes. “How am _ I _the unreasonable one in this scenario?”

“You can ask Malfoy to play.” Ron says, poorly feigning nonchalance. Harry doesn’t like the way Ron’s looking at him.

“Now I know you’re crazy,” Harry replies, trying to keep his voice even. “Why would I do that?”

“Dunno,” Ron shrugs a very fake shrug. “Why wouldn’t you? Just saying.”

“Just saying _ what_?”

“Nothing. Maybe you could return his hoodie.”

It’s a good thing it’s dark, because Harry’s sure his face is glowing red right now. 

“I--” he starts. “How did you--”

Ron just nods. “Not as clever as you think you are, mate. Are you coming or not?”

“Well I’m awake now, aren’t I?” Harry says with a put-upon sigh.

Ron grins. “That’s what I thought you’d say.”

“Shut it.”

The two of them steal out of their room without a sound. Once his eyes adjust, Harry sees most of the other Eighth Years waiting silently in the moonlit common room. 

“We’ve got Harry!” Ron yell-whispers with glee. A chorus of muted cheers bubbles up from the crowd. Ron nudges Harry with his elbow and cocks his head towards the door of Malfoy’s room. “Go get him.”

_ “Me?” _Harry protests. Inviting Malfoy to play is one thing. Creeping into his room is quite another.

“Yes, _ you. _ Certainly not _ me. _”

“Oh, for heaven’s _ sake, _” Pansy sighs, and marches through the crowd. She raps on Malfoy’s door. “Wake up, Sleeping Beauty,” she sing-songs through the key-hole.

A faint rustling noise. “Fuck off, Pans,” is the muffled reply. Faint as Malfoy’s voice is, Harry can tell it’s sleep-scratchy and deeper than usual. He swallows dryly and pretends to not be paying attention.

“Draco, dear, everyone is out here waiting for you to join in the fun. Don’t be such a wet blanket. I’m not taking no for an answer.”

More rustling. The door cracks open an inch and a sliver of Malfoy’s haughty shadow appears. “Well I’m not giving ‘yes’ for an answer, so I suppose we’re at an impasse. Go back to sleep and act your age for Salazar’s sake, the lot of you.” The door handle creaks like it’s about to be pulled closed again. 

“Malfoy,” Harry’s mouth says abruptly (and without his permission). Even in the dark he feels everyone watching him. 

Malfoy’s eye peeks out from behind the door, under his fringe. Harry can picture the raised eyebrow without seeing them. Malfoy says nothing, waiting for Harry to continue.

Harry clears his throat. “Uhm. Might be fun, yeah? Why not, right?”

A thick pause. 

“You’re playing, Potter?”

“Course,” Harry responds, ignoring Ron’s guffaw.

Another pause.

“Bloody _ hell_, if it means that _ much _ to everyone,” Malfoy sighs dramatically. 

“Not everyone,” Hermione mutters. 

Finally, the door swings open and Malfoy emerges wearing grey silk pajama bottoms and a thin white t-shirt that hugs his frame like it’s painted on. His white-blond hair is tousled and his lips are as full and pink as ever. Harry willfully looks out the window. Godric’s fucking _ ghost_, this was a mistake. Who looks like that after just waking up?

“All right,” Seamus claps his hands together. “Who’s it first?”

“Me,” says Hermione primly. Ron unsuccessfully hides a smirk. 

“Oh _ please_,” Malfoy rolls his eyes. “Galleons to gobstones the two of you have already decided on a hiding spot so you can snog each other’s faces off until someone else is unfortunate enough to find you.”

They protest weakly but Harry knows their sheepish faces all too well. 

“All right then,” Ron counters. “If you’re so smart, Malfoy, you hide first. If you can manage to play fair, that is.”

“_ Of course, _” Malfoy says acidly. “I’m aware of the rules.” He lists them off on his fingers, looking elegantly bored while doing so. “No changing spots, no going outside, no dorms, kitchen or Room of Requirement, no spells, potions, or--” he glances at Harry--“invisibility cloaks.” 

There it is, that smirk again, making Harry’s insides dip and roil. But he manages to give as good as he gets.

“Malfoy,” he says in mock offense while throwing a hand to his chest, “I would _ never_.”

“The rumours say otherwise, Potter, but then, I never put much stock in rumours anyway.” He puts his hands on his hips and juts out his chin. “So it’s decided then. I’ll hide first.”

“And Hell’s frozen over,” Ron quips, “since I’ll be spending a Friday night looking for Malfoy in the dark.”

Harry laughs. 

“Is it so hilarious, Potter? Didn’t you spend the better part of Sixth Year trailing me?”

Harry's jaw tightens.

“Didn’t _ you _ spend the better part of that year--” he starts, but the rest of the sentence, which was going to be _ “plotting to kill Dumbledore” _ dies on his lips when he sees the panic on Malfoy’s face. It’s over. And they both have regrets. “Erm . . . snogging Pansy?” 

The look of horror on Malfoy’s face is priceless as the room bursts into laughter.

“He _ wishes_,” Pansy says dryly. “I’m starting to count now. Thirty . . . twenty-nine . . . twenty-eight . . .” 

Draco grins an uncharacteristically boyish grin and turns on his heel. “Good luck,” he says over his shoulder. 

But Harry doesn’t need luck. He has a map. 

*** 

It’s been an hour. Enough time. Harry couldn’t scarper off to his room the minute the game started or Ron would have been suspicious. They looked together for a while and then decided to split up, at which point Harry did, in fact, go back to his room, and is now seated on his bed staring at Malfoy’s dot on the map--something he hasn’t allowed himself to do for a long time. He didn’t expect it to feel so comforting and familiar.

It’s wrong; he knows this. An invasion of privacy and something better left to old schoolyard rivalries. (Plus it's cheating but who the hell cares.) He’s not that person anymore. Or is he? Wasn’t he obsessed with Malfoy, even then? Does it feel so very different now? Yes. And no.

He got here ten minutes ago but hasn’t been able to force himself to get up, even though he knows exactly where Mafoy is. What happens when he finds him? Do either of them have a plan for that?

Harry studies the dot, wobbling ever so slightly in an alcove Harry didn’t know existed until just now. It’s behind a tapestry near the Ravenclaw dormitory. Alcove might be the wrong word for it, on second look. It’s more like an unfinished passageway. Cavernous, twisting, probably quite narrow, but not leading out into anywhere else. A brilliant spot really, for the game. Well hidden but spacious enough. With a hard swallow and another quick Tempus, Harry mounts his courage and leaves his room. 

He stands looking at the tapestry now, heart racing and palms hot. All he needs to do is push it back and-- 

But just as quickly as he raises his hand, the tapestry swishes to the side and a pale slender arm drags him inside by his collar.

“Malfoy?” he whispers to the hand at his throat.

A furious “Shh!” is the only response he gets before the hand releases him. It’s pitch dark, here. No outlines, no shadows. Harry waits for a moment, but he’s never been very good at that.

“Okay but it _ is _ you, right?”

“Shhhh . . . shut up, just shut up would you?” Malfoy hisses. 

“Geez, Merlin, fine,” Harry hisses back. But still there’s no touching, no more whispers. Harry turns in a half circle. He can’t even tell where Malfoy is. “Look, I’m just trying to--”

Suddenly an arm wraps around his chest from behind and pulls him backwards. Harry obeys, leaning into it, dragging his feet with it. He can smell Malfoy afresh now, so much crisper and clearer than the jumper he has yet to return. He wants to turn and bury his face in the scent. Yes, alarmingly pathetic, he knows. 

The pulling stops abruptly and he thinks they’ve reached the end of the passage, with Malfoy leaning back against a wall and him leaning loosely back against Malfoy.

So many _ questions. _ What is he doing? What are _ they _doing? Harry settles on “Okay, but how . . .” 

“Merlin _ fuck_, is it physically impossible for you to stop talking, Potter?” Malfoy huffs into his neck, his arm still draped across Harry's chest. Despite the inch or so between them, Harry feels each consonant seep into his skin, the ‘f” in ‘fuck’ and the ‘p’ in ‘Potter’ stirring something fiery inside him. "And a full bloody hour?! Did you get lost?" 

Oh. So he has been waiting. For him. Harry bites his lip. That's . . . good to know. 

"I just . . ." He trails off and Malfoy's fingers dig into his forearms as if to say, once more, _shut_ _up._

And even though Malfoy’s lips haven’t touched him yet, it’s easy to imagine they have. It’s impossible to think they won’t. His senses heighten and warmth floods his belly. For once, he manages to say nothing. Blinks in the darkness. Lifts his hand behind him to feel the back of Malfoy’s head and bring it closer, dropping his own head so Malfoy’s lips have nowhere to go but there--just there at his nape. And then they do. They are. Malfoy’s lips brush against his skin and open slightly, without a sound, and Harry understands. Now is not the time for words. Words only get in the way.

Malfoy's tongue circles the top of his spine and Harry bites back a moan. Yes, that. More of that. He presses back, hears Malfoy’s feet shuffle, feels Malfoy’s legs fall open, the unmistakable hardness there sliding between his thighs, silk slipping against flannel, grazing his bollocks in an agonizing drag of more, more _please_. He’s already hard and dizzy with want. 

_ “Fuck,” _he whimpers, unable to stop himself. 

“Quiet,” Malfoy mouths shakily over the shell of his ear, which does not help matters. Harry swallows and nods. A contract of sorts.

And then it's Malfoy's hand slipping into Harry's pajama bottoms, under the waistband of his pants. Malfoy's fingers curling over his cock, a loose fist that Harry bucks into as every thought he's ever had leaves him for this: this new bliss, these rough, uncoordinated waves and spikes of pleasure, their ragged breaths echoing off the walls.

He's close.

A gust of air hits his face and his head snaps up at the realization that they've been found. _ Not yet, Merlin Circe, _ ** _please_ ** _ not yet. _He can't stop moving. 

"Anyone in here?" asks Neville in the pitch black.

"Shut it, Longbottom," Malfoy says, his voice miraculously steady. Which is _ hot_. "Stay where you are. It's too . . . _ uh _. . tight back here."

Harry would laugh if he weren't so desperate to come. He feels Malfoy's other hand stir at his side as a silencing spell is murmured between them, chased by a long moan from Malfoy's lips. Malfoy drops Harry's cock and grabs his hips instead, thrusting with abandon. That in itself is enough to finish Harry, who follows him over the edge, anything but quiet. 

_ "Aaah fuck fuck f-fuuuuuck!"_

Their limbs slacken and they pant, Malfoy's head falls forward again and Harry winds an arm behind him to keep it there.

Harry mutters a cleaning spell and Malfoy does the same. They stay as they are, even as more students come to find them, joining Neville in their unawareness of what's just happened, more bodies pressed in tight, waiting to be found.

It's nice. Shit, it's nice. 

After all that, Harry wishes they could stay here forever, just like this. Wonders if Malfoy is also dazed and giddy, smiling in the dark. 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos will make me love you forever. Say hi any old time, friends. <3


End file.
